Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time

We often think of our lives as a series of projects we are building. We lay the foundations, we set the walls, we work through the blueprints of our careers, our families, and our futures. We want the structure to be sturdy; we want it to be beautiful. We want to look at the work of our hands and see something that reflects the love we have poured into it. In today’s reading from the prophet Isaiah, we see this image of the vineyard. The landowner does everything right: he clears the stones, he plants the choicest vines, he builds a watchtower, he digs a wine press. He creates a space where life can flourish. He expects grapes, but he finds only wild, bitter fruit. The vineyard is a place of labor, yes, but more than that, it is a place of expectation. It is a place where we hope for a harvest that justifies the effort of the planting.

I want you to think about how Benjamin Vo lived. He was a boy who understood that life is not just about existing; it is about cultivating. Whether it was the intricate, logical beauty of the code he wrote for his applications, or the way he shared his passion for aviation with his father, Ben was always planting something. He had this brilliant, curious mind that was constantly looking for the next horizon, always ready to learn, always ready to build. But beneath that sharp intellect was a heart that was profoundly gentle. Think of the way he would talk about his dream of 'con chim airlines.' There was a giggle, a spark in his eye, a pure, unadulterated joy in the very idea of flight. That wasn't just a hobby; it was the reflection of a soul that was meant for the heights, a soul that knew, in its own way, that there was something more to life than the ground beneath our feet.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these past three months, the world has felt like it has lost its map. You remember the way Ben would come down the stairs, always the first to say, 'Good morning, Dad.' You remember the way he would listen to your stories, Alan, with such rapt attention, as if they were the most important things in the world. You remember the quiet joy of a family trip, the way you all moved through the world together. To look at the empty chair at the table feels like a betrayal of that bond. But please hear this: the Gospel today tells us that we are never truly alone. Jesus speaks of the landowner who entrusts his vineyard to others. He speaks of the son who is sent, the son who is rejected, the son who is the cornerstone. Jesus is the Son who was cast out, but in His resurrection, He became the foundation of everything that truly lasts.

Think about that. The vineyard is not just the work of our hands; it is the work of God’s heart. When we feel that sudden, sharp ache of his absence, do not be afraid. That ache is simply your love looking for a place to land. Let it land on the promise of the Resurrection. Let it land on the certainty that Benjamin is not in the past; he is in the future. He is at the destination, waiting for you to complete the journey. He is not a project that was cut short; he is a life that has been gathered into the harvest of God’s own love. You are not being asked to understand the mysteries of the universe. You are being asked to trust the One who holds the stars in place and who holds Benjamin in the palm of His hand.

Ryan, you are the one who carries that peace now. You are the brother who knows the rhythm of Ben’s heart. You know the secrets of the games he coded, the joy he found in the simple things, the way he looked at the world with wonder. When you walk into a room, you are carrying that legacy. You are carrying the curiosity, the kindness, and the love that you and Ben shared. You are not a brother who is walking alone. You are a brother who is walking with the strength of a love that has already arrived at the destination. Keep being the boy who is curious. Keep being the brother who knows that love is the only thing that actually lasts. You are a family of four, and that will never change. You are just living in two different rooms of the same house, and the door between them is held open by the grace of Christ.

There is a temptation, when we are grieving, to think that we have been left behind in the dark. We feel the absence of the smile, the silence of the morning greeting, the empty chair at the table. But the Gospel today gives us a different perspective. Jesus calls us to look at the cornerstone. He says, 'The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.' He is telling us that the things we think are broken, or lost, or finished, are actually the very things God is using to build His Kingdom. Your love for Ben, your memories of him, your desire to keep his spirit alive—that is the mortar that holds your family together. That is the fruit that is still being gathered, even now.

I want to speak very gently to the ache that sometimes visits you in the quiet of the night. There is a weight that parents often carry, a stone of 'what if' or 'did I miss something.' I want to lift that stone from you today. You were the parents Benjamin needed. You were his sanctuary. You were the ones who nurtured that brilliant, curious, gentle spirit. You did not miss anything. God does not look at your son’s life and find it lacking, and He does not look at your care for him and find it wanting. You are not being accused. You are being held. Let that stone fall. You are free to grieve, you are free to miss him, but you are not required to carry the burden of self-reproach. That is a weight that has no place in the kingdom of God. You are loved without limit, and you are being held by the same hands that hold him.

Think of the 'Well of Love' in Vietnam. That well is a perfect image of what you are doing. You are taking the love that was poured into Ben, and you are letting it flow into the lives of others. You are ensuring that his life is not a closed chapter, but a living, breathing, life-sustaining force. Every time you are kind, every time you choose to forgive, every time you choose to hope in the face of despair, you are allowing his legacy to refresh the world. You are turning the soil of the earth so that the Kingdom can grow. You are the ones who are keeping his light burning in a world that so often forgets to look up.

We are on this earth, as the Psalm says, to see the bounty of the Lord in the land of the living. Sometimes that land feels like a desert. Sometimes it feels like we are waiting for a harvest that will never come. But the Gospel tells us that we are watched over. We are guarded. We are guided. We are never out of the sight of the Father. When the days feel long and the silence feels heavy, remember that you are not being asked to understand the mysteries of the universe. You are being asked to trust the One who holds the stars in place and who holds Benjamin in the palm of His hand. You are being asked to live in such a way that his memory continues to be a blessing to everyone you meet.

So today, carry this away with you: you are never alone. You are a family that is being held by the same hands that hold the universe. When you see a bird in flight, or a plane climbing into the clouds, don't just see a machine or a creature; see a sign of the freedom that Benjamin now knows. See a sign of the promise that you are walking toward. Keep your eyes on the horizon. The journey is not over; it is simply continuing in a new, more glorious way. And one day, when the long road reaches the end, you will look up and see him waiting for you, and the joy will be beyond all reckoning.

Take this with you: you are a family of four, and that will never change. The geography of your life has shifted, but the bond of your love is eternal. Keep the 'Well of Love' flowing in his name. Keep the kindness moving. Keep the dream alive. And when you walk out those doors, look up at the sky. Remember that he is not in the dust. He is in the light. He is waiting for you, and he is watching over you with that same sweet, gentle smile that you remember so vividly. That smile is a sign. It is a sign that the harvest is coming, and that the One who started this good work in you will surely bring it to completion. You are loved without limit, and you are being held by the same hands that hold him. Amen.